


You're a real Firequacker

by AnnaBolena



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Drunk Enjolras, M/M, Misappropriation of Grantaire's hoodie and a kitchen pan, Sharing a Bed, Stealing Ducks, kind of pointless but fluffy, sort of crack, written for my own selfish pleasure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 14:43:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17685437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: Half an hour ago they were at a shed-and-barbecue park, to celebrate Jehan's birthday and their fulfilled dream of moving into a forest cottage. Sixteen minutes ago Enjolras heard a sound that caught his attention while he was stumbling home. Fifteen minutes ago Enjolras spotted a sign that he managed to read with the help of Grantaire’s cell phone flashlight. Ten minutes ago Grantaire hoisted Enjolras over a wall, the man entirely determined to ignore Grantaire’s well-meant protests.a.k.a. Enjolras and Grantaire steal ducks.





	You're a real Firequacker

**Author's Note:**

> written because of an anonymous prompt that came in while I was feeling increasingly terrible. It cheered me up a little to write this, so I hope you like this too even though it's vaguely crack-y
> 
> Self-indulgent and not very deep, but what I wanted to write. :D

Before tonight, Grantaire always bought into the idea that you could classify people into certain types of drunks. It always seemed to fit rather neatly. Reasonably, some would - and some do - argue against putting people in boxes. (Some do so very loudly and passionately.) But if the shoe fits, right?

Grantaire was a depressed drunk, Courfeyrac was a bubbly drunk, Bahorel got extremely giggly, Combeferre got overly sexual when inebriated.

It only made sense to Grantaire that Enjolras would be the angry drunk, given the passion he masters day after day. (Some days he doesn't master it at all. Grantaire is still reeling from seeing the full force of that passion unleashed once or twice.)

Trust the man himself to prove Grantaire profoundly wrong.

 

(He’s already demonstrated a proficiency at doing so. He proved Grantaire wrong when he thought all hope was lost for the future on this earth, when he thought no one was inherently good past their fifth year of life, he proved Grantaire wrong when he thought he’d never fall in love, both in quick succession and with alarming intensity, all the while unaware he was doing anything at all.)

 

But, lest he get ahead of himself with his story-telling:

 

Half an hour ago they were at a shed-and-barbecue park, to celebrate Jehan's birthday and their fulfilled dream of moving into a forest cottage. Sixteen minutes ago Enjolras heard a sound that caught his attention while he was stumbling home. Fifteen minutes ago Enjolras spotted a sign that he managed to read with the help of Grantaire’s cell phone flashlight. Ten minutes ago Grantaire hoisted Enjolras over a wall, the man entirely determined to ignore Grantaire’s well-meant protests.

 

(“Is your nose is pressed against my butt, Grantaire? That can't be nice for you. Is it? Never mind, I can’t see anything over the wall yet. Can you lift me higher? I want to get a look inside the garden.”

“Yeah, hold on,” Grantaire had said, seating Enjolras onto one shoulder, and barely holding on through the man’s incessant wiggling. One of Enjolras’ hands had dug into his hair and tugged, for balance, and Grantaire had shut his eyes and hoped there would be no awkward reveal of the rather...inspired state...of his dick.

Enjolras had let out an indignated gasp, and for a second Grantaire, mortified, thought himself discovered, only for Enjolras to pronounce: “We need to get them out of there, Grantaire!”)

 

Now they’re standing in said garden, surrounded by quacking of various pitches and volume.  

 

“This is never going to work,” Grantaire says, staring at a furiously glaring Enjolras. He can’t actually make out much of his face in the dark, but fury radiates off of him, and so Grantaire _feels_ more than sees his expression.

(In any case there is never much variety in the expressions Grantaire knows well on Enjolras. Bored disinterest, mildly annoyed to blatantly furious about covers the whole range. Tonight has already deviated in introducing Grantaire to a novel side of Enjolras’ face, his drunk smiles. They’re as touching as they are devastating.)

 

“Trust you not to have faith in me,” Enjolras huffs. Then he hiccups. That last beer did not sit well with him, apparently.

 

“Oh, I have faith in you, Apollo. But what do you propose I do if my hoodie starts chirping in the middle of the street and someone notices?”

 

“We’re not going by street,” Enjolras says, thoughtfully considering Grantaire now. And fine, Grantaire admits, the rest of their way home is mostly through field paths, seldom traversed at this hour of the night by any being not drunk or an animal carving out its nocturnal path. Still, Grantaire is made uneasy by drunk Enjolras’ ambitions. How is it possible that they outpace his sober goals in their loftiness?

 

At his feet, a sound of protest resonates. Enjolras looks down at the mother duck, the one whose _babies are currently wiggling around in Grantaire’s hoodie_ , and he smiles a placating smile at her. Mother duck is not placated, in fact she only quacks louder, almost as if insulted by the drunk man trying to calm her.

“We just need to get past the wall, no big deal.”

 

“That wall is taller than you are. I’d squash the babies trying to pull myself up. And how are you going to mount it, great Apollo? Your upper body strength leaves something to be desired.”

 

“My upper body strength is perfectly passable, thank you very much. We already made it over once,” Enjolras protests, at last picking up the mother duck, his face determined and no longer content with ‘just being furious’. Enjolras transcends the constraints of human outrage on a daily basis. He squints at the duck, and, to Grantaire’s utter delight, quacks back at her. (It is only too unfortunate that Grantaire cannot fully appreciate this scene, since they’re illegally standing on someone’s property, _contemplating duck robbery_.)

 

“I gave you a boost on the way in, how have you already forgotten that, you literally just complained about my nose pressing into your rear, you usually harp on about the wrong I do for months on end,” Grantaire sighs, stumbling after a striding Enjolras. Even drunk the man outpaces him with his terrible, terrible long legs. They are not too far from the wall when Enjolras pauses, and pales a little.

 

“It’s taller than I remember,” he whispers.

 

“Yeah no shit,” Grantaire says, “I told you this was a bad idea, but no. ‘Grantaire, they’re going to be shredded in the morning, Grantaire, this is an outrage and it is our moral obligation to save their lives. Grantaire this, Grantaire that.’ I’m such an idiot for even thinking about indulging your whims.”

 

“You would call me enforcing their right to live a whim?”

 

“I already regret having said anything.”

 

“No you don’t,” Enjolras says, almost on autopilot as he stares at the daunting wall, “You live to complain.”

 

Just to be contrary, Grantaire shuts up. Enjolras, it seems, is surprised by this, because he looks at Grantaire, blinking a few times as though to assure himself Grantaire is still beside him. As though he cannot actually see him and, like a bat, needs echolocation, the constant backtalk he provides, to place him among his surroundings. A drunk bat. The metaphor is getting away from Grantaire. Enjolras is drunk. Grantaire is beginning a long journey back into temporary sobriety for this night. He's better off only because he's gotten years of practice in.

(Grantaire blames Combeferre for this. Technically, getting their fearless leader drunk was a coordinated group effort tonight, but Combeferre, wisely on his account, opted out of walking Enjolras home in favor of bedding a certain curly-haired devil tonight.

 

“That’s okay…R will walk me home…” Enjolras had hiccuped and smiled into his drink when Combeferre announced his intentions while one hand had already begun to distractedly but enthusiastically fondle the inside of Courfeyrac’s thigh. The man whose thigh had received the attention had been smiling into Combeferre’s neck before he got up, murmuring something Grantaire hadn’t heard.

 

“Will he?” Combeferre had wondered, one eyebrow raised, and gestured towards where Grantaire was busy demonstrating that yes, Bahorel, he definitely could down a beer in less than five seconds. Grantaire had sobered up almost shockingly quickly, the immediate nausea-inducing effects of the beer chug essentially negated under Combeferre’s discerning gaze and nodded.

 

“This is my last for the evening. I’ll make sure he gets home safely. Go get some.”

 

“See,” Enjolras had said, smugly, before accepting another shot from a freshly returned Courfeyrac with a kiss to his nose. That was when Grantaire had witnessed the full brunt of drunk Enjolras’ smile for the first time.)

 

“I’m going to cry,” Enjolras says, cradling the quietly quacking duck to his chest and wiping at his eye, almost distractedly. “They’re all so small and they’re going to die, Grantaire. They're so tiny." The duck in his arms is larger than Bahorel's dog, but that is negligible. The ducklings in Grantaire’s hoodie are comparatively tiny, he'll give Enjolras that. "They have no one to protect them but us. We're their only hope, Grantaire. That’s so sad. Every...every duck should have a protector. Unbelievably…sad-”

 

Enjolras sniffles.

 

The sound is too much to bear. Enjolras shouldn’t ever be made to cry. Not if Grantaire can help it.

(He's not sure if he can help it, but he can try.)

 

Grantaire resigns himself to executing this utterly idiotic plan.

“Alright, alright,” Grantaire says, soothingly, stepping closer. Enjolras sniffs, pulls up snot through his nose, a wet sound that Joly would shudder at.

His hoodie starts quacking louder as the ducklings sense their mother close by. By now there’s probably duck feces in it. This is ridiculous. Tonight feels like it shouldn't exist within the same timeline as the rest of his life.  “I’m going to boost you up, then I’m going to hand you the mother duck and our little ducklings, okay? But you have to wait to jump down until I can catch you, do you hear me? I won’t have you breaking your foot.”

 

“You mean to aid me?” Enjolras sniffles and then hiccups again. “Truly? Can you be good for that?”

 

“I have a vague ambition in that direction, at least for tonight,” Grantaire snorts, “Though this is illegal, you know that, right? We’re stealing someone’s property.”

Enjolras whispers something to himself, then starts to giggle quietly. He beckons with his hand for Grantaire to lean in, and when Grantaire follows suit, he whispers into his ear: “Hippity hoppity, abolish private property.”

 

At Grantaire’s shocked but resigned expression, he giggles harder. “You can’t own living, breathing beings, Grantaire, that’s silly and presu - prusumpt...untrue. You know what was also illegal? Homosexuality, at some point. It still is in…somewhere…god, too many places. Legality is nothing I set my moral cap to and you should not either!”

 

“You’re so definitely going to regret this in the morning,” Grantaire says, but motions to give Enjolras a boost.

 

“I don’t want to step on you,” Enjolras gasps, looking at where Grantaire kneels.

 

“Have you already forgotten that my back already bears one of your muddy footprints from the way into this mess?”

 

“I did that? You let me do that?”

 

“I’m about to let you do it again,” Grantaire sighs. Drunk Enjolras is a whirlwind of emotions, and while amusing at times, Grantaire could do with the annoyingly upright, rational, sober version of his Apollo right now. “Come on, step on me.”

 

“Courfeyrac did say you’d do anything for me,” Enjolras says, seemingly to himself, in an odd tone of voice. It’s not a secret, but the fact that Courfeyrac would mention such a thing lodges in Grantaire’s chest like a splinter. Less uncomfortable, more cloyingly painful and prone to fester. It hurts.

 

“Yeah, anything, I’d blacken your boots if you asked, obviously. Now get on with it.” Finally, Grantaire gives into the urge to roll his eyes. For a small second, the heavy weight of Enjolras’ palm lands on the back of his neck, and he feels the presence of Enjolras’ lips near his ear. Grantaire has no concept of what acrobatics the man must be performing to bend down this way with a duck still patiently nestled in his arms, but his mind drifts to other things soon. Namely, the lips on his ear, the tongue that Enjolras presumably means to lick his own lips with that makes contact with Grantaire’s skin and electrifies him inside out. “Thank you,” Enjolras whispers as though he were sharing a secret of his own now that Grantaire has laid himself open.

 

(Likely, drunk that he is, Enjolras will not remember tonight, but he will still remember Courfeyrac’s words, and instinctively know the truth of them.)

 

The process of handing Enjolras the duck and then the ducklings takes longer than anticipated, though Enjolras takes his assigned duty in making sure none of the ducklings fall off the wall very seriously, lovingly admonishing a tiny little yellow  ball of feathers for nearly getting itself killed.

 

“You’re so small,” Enjolras whispers at the confused duckling, “You don’t even know how to fly! What were you thinking you silly little thing?”

 

Grantaire says a prayer to a god he doesn’t believe in when he's finally back on solid ground, no duck left behind. Enjolras sits on the wall, kicking his feet distractedly as he looks up at the sky. 

"Are you ready to come down from there?" Grantaire wonders. Enjolras cocks his head at Grantaire. 

"Are you going to catch me?" 

"I'm going to try, yeah," Grantaire nods, and finds himself suddenly with his arms full of Enjolras, who jumped without hesitation, much less a signal to announce his descent. Now his arms are crossed behind Grantaire's neck, and his long, terrible, long legs are wrapped around Grantaire's waist. They're both breathing heavily - Grantaire from the strain of catching the full weight of a drunk, if spindly, man not entirely in control of his movements, and Enjolras, presumably, from the thrill of saving a couple of ducks. 

"I'm going to set you down now," Grantaire whispers. 

"No," Enjolras protests softly but with conviction, "I like this. Can you carry me home? You're really strong, Grantaire. I like this."

"If I carry you, who's going to carry the ducks?" 

 That seems to make sense to Enjolras, who remains on wobbly feet for a few seconds after reconnecting with the earth.

“You shall take the little ones back into your hoodie,” Enjolras ordains, back straighter again, “And I shall take the mother, and carry her abundant weight with my own two arms! Each according to his ability!”

 

The proclamation would make Grantaire weep with laughter if he weren’t still fully aware of the fact that there is a good chance they’ll be arrested for this if anyone sober runs into them between now and Enjolras’ place. At the very least, someone crossing their path is bound to remember the gorgeous drunk man teaching a large duck socialist theory, and when the original duck-owner complains to the police, that’ll probably come up. Enjolras isn't easy to forget, lord knows he determines to try once or twice a year.

 

(Still, let it never be said that Enjolras does not capture any audience put in front of him.

 

“You see, feathered biped citizen, no one has the right to determine your life for you, no man holds the power to oppress you if you take it from him. You and all other ducks, and those that stand with you in your struggle, shall put up with it no longer!”

 

“Quack,” says the duck.

 

“Glad to know we understand one another.”)

 

“Lead the way,” Grantaire says, then amends: “Stumble the way, in your case. Sure you know where you’re going there, Apollo?”

 

“My heart is my compass,” Enjolras huffs, “It will not lead me astray on the path of righteousness.”

 

“Personally I prefer google maps,” Grantaire mutters, and withers a little under Enjolras’ glare. “I sure hope your house is on this path to righteousness we're traversing tonight, since I seem to recall your street name being a different one.”

 

“You mock, when you should rejoice in the liberation tonight has brought!”

 

Right then.

 

“So, what are you going to do with your newly acquired feathered companions?”

 

“I shall find a magnificent home for them to roam free for the rest of their earthly lives,” Enjolras says, then pets the mother duck, who quacks at him. Enjolras nods at her, seriously, then says: “Just so.”

 

Grantaire would love to film this whole exchange, but that would be collecting evidence.

 

“You haven’t got a clue what you're going to do, do you?”

 

“Baseless accusations!” Enjolras hisses, “You will see, Grantaire.”

 

Grantaire remains quiet after that, occasionally stops Enjolras from veering into a field to gather corn for his companions. (“But Grantaire! We must seize what has been wrongfully taken from them! Look how they suffer! Look how they yearn for nourishment after having so long been oppressed! Shall you deny them?”)

 

The stars are out tonight and ordinarily Grantaire would enjoy spending his walk home with his head turned to the sky, staring and admiring from afar as he does in all aspects of life, marveling at how impossible to capture the true beauty of it all is. (Not for lack of trying.)

Instead he is a reluctant drunk-sitter and an even more reluctant accomplice to Enjolras’ anarchy.

 

God, is this what he puts his friends through every time he gets shitfaced?

 

(No, drunk Enjolras is still a great deal better than drunk Grantaire, even sober Grantaire. He is unchained, unleashed. Perhaps overwhelming, but still relentlessly good in a way Grantaire could never even hope to be. Still-)

 

It might be time for Grantaire to seriously consider his drinking habits and how they affects his life.

 

“We’ve reached your dwelling,” Grantaire finally says when they come to a stop in front of Enjolras’ place and the man is still up to nonsense with his now calmed and sleepy duck companion. Somehow, through his drunk stumbling and speeches, he has rocked the duck halfway to sleep. There is a comment about socialist theory and its soporific qualities on the tip of his tongue that he studiously swallows down. Enjolras shut up about that about five minutes ago in favor of humming revolutionary ditties. Grantaire isn’t above privately admitting that it is absolutely adorable.

 

“Enjolras.”

 

“Yes! Follow me inside, if you would,” Enjolras nods at Grantaire, then unlocks the door. It seems to be a difficult maneuver, so Grantaire steadies the elbow the admittedly large duck is tucked against. A disaster is thus avoided. Enjolras exhales softly, then nods at Grantaire again, pleased. “Well done.”

 

Inside, Grantaire produces four ducklings from his hoodie, who all run up to the mother and quack excitedly.

 

“Good,” Enjolras proclaims, then stumbles towards the kitchen to begin rifling through the cabinets. Once or twice Grantaire has to balance a plate that would otherwise fall to the floor. Every time, Enjolras nods at him. He gets the sense that the man is disproportionately surprised by his usefulness tonight. It’s new for both of them.

 

(Shouldn’t he be sobering up by now? They walked for almost an hour after leaving their friends – a trip that would have taken sober Enjolras half that time, at most.)

 

Enjolras flops onto the linoleum floor and watches with his chin resting on his hands as the ducks drink from the frying pan full of water he set down for them. He kicks his feet softly. At the sight, Grantaire is struck by how much he loves this ridiculous man, and it builds up in his chest, tightening his throat. It isn’t the first time he’s had to swallow down a superfluous confession, but it feels harder to do now than ever before.

(It helps to know that it wouldn’t be appreciated, but at the same time it hurts.)

 

All Grantaire can think of is how high Combeferre’s eyebrows will climb when he finds out what Grantaire let Enjolras misappropriate their cast-iron kitchenware for.

 

“They need _more_ ,” Enjolras realizes with a startled gasp, getting up. Grantaire remains seated for a while longer to calm down, then follows.

 

Humming, Enjolras produces a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, rips it open with his teeth – wow, Grantaire has to actually stifle a gasp, oh god – and tosses a handful in the general direction of the ducks. Grantaire manages to stop him before he showers them a second time.

 

“They need nourishment, Grantaire, not only their souls but their bodies hunger for it! Can you not see?”

 

“Of course,” Grantaire agrees, because while this entire night has been ridiculous, arguing his case to employ reason now would only make things worse, “Perhaps drop some of the peas in the pan instead of covering the room in them?”

 

“Excellent idea!” Enjolras’ eyes light up, and he surges forward to press an affectionate kiss to Grantaire’s nose. “It’s so big and lovely,” he wonders out loud, awed, then sets to task with the feeding the ducks.

 

At last, he yawns. Victory, Grantaire thinks, but he thinks too fast.

 

“Good night, small feathered citizens,” he declares sleepily, and attempts to kiss every duck in the room. They’re fast though, it takes him a while. When he has managed, he reaches for Grantaire’s hand.

 

“Come,” he says, letting out another yawn that perfectly shows his tonsils and hit Grantaire with some residual alcohol fumes, “Let us to bed.”

 

“To…bed?”

 

“Yes,” Enjolras nods, looking at Grantaire curiously, “Aren’t you tired, Grantaire?”

 

“Yeah, and I’m just going to walk home, it’s not far,” Grantaire shrugs.

 

“Utter nonsense!” He declares, “After all you have done for me and those less fortunate than us tonight, I would not cast you out into the cold!”

 

“It’s _July_ , Apollo, I’ll be fine. Give me a jacket or something if you’re worried about me catching frostbite in this weather, but know that you’re wearing a t-shirt and nothing else.”

 

“I will not hear it!” Enjolras shakes his head, then his voice drops to a low whisper: “You should share my bed tonight, Grantaire. It is more comfortable and I will rest easier knowing you do not have to face the long journey home all by your lonesome.”

 

“Especially now that I’m a wanted criminal,” Grantaire gestures towards the ducks, snorting.

 

“Exactly! Much better we lay low for now. Will you join me in bed?”

 

“You’re going to regret inviting me in there in the morning, Apollo,” Grantaire sighs, but takes Enjolras offered hand anyway.

 

“I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country,” he says, yawning again.

 

“First of all, he never said that, that was a piece of propaganda, _which you know_ , secondly, you preach dismantling the borders of countries on a daily basis. This one is a miss for me, but you’ve been doing well all evening.”

 

“Is there reason to your ramblings?” Enjolras is apparently coming back to himself, if that familiar tone is anything to go by.

 

“Never,” Grantaire snorts, “You know me.”

 

“You should take the hoodie off, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, after Grantaire has already gotten rid of his shoes. He looks up at Enjolras, who seems to have quietly removed his jeans. Grantaire would call it magic, but he sees them crumpled by Enjolras’ feet, so he chooses instead to call it stealth he didn’t suspect Enjolras of possessing.

 

Still - “What?”

 

“I stepped on it,” Enjolras sighs, “It’s muddy.”

 

“Right,” Grantaire says, and removes the garment. Enjolras looks at him for a long time. He licks his lips. Grantaire dies, a little. 

 

“T-shirt too,” he finally settles on, “Bound to be sweaty, after the barbecue.”

 

Grantaire follows the instructions given. Enjolras’ eyes linger still. “Anything else?”

Grantaire’s hand opens his belt out of sheer gall he didn't think he possessed, raising a daring eyebrow at Enjolras, who only continues to stare. His eyes track the movement of fabric peeling off of skin. No complaint is made. Enjolras' eyes are encouraging. Grantaire plays with the elastic of his underwear, letting it snap against his skin.

 

“Are you going to have me be completely naked for this? Because I can tell you right now that it’s a bad idea,” Grantaire clears his throat when Enjolras just _doesn’t stop staring_. “Enjolras!”

 

“What? Oh, this is fine. Lets sleep.” Enjolras shakes his head, then clears his throat and gets beneath the covers. Grantaire, slightly more reluctant, does the same.

 

“Don’t yell at me in the morning, yeah? This was your idea.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a long time, Grantaire is just witness to minutes of heavy breathing. Without warning, the man twists beneath the sheets to land on Grantaire’s chest, and then he is being kissed.

 

It’s a short kiss, and wouldn’t be half as enticing coming from anyone else for numerous reasons - 1) alcohol breath, though that’s a stones-and-glass-houses statement, coming from Grantaire, 2) so much tongue Grantaire thinks he might actually choke on it for a second, 3) teeth, and not in the pleasant way either - but it’s Enjolras kissing him, and it’s a kiss that he might euphemistically call passionate. Definitely deliberate. He can’t discount this as an accidental brush of lips that should have hit his nose or cheek.

There is no reason to it, but it will not be denied.

 

Once Enjolras has checked that off a mental list he apparently keeps, he smiles at Grantaire, says: “Good night, R,” and drops into sleep like its nothing.

 

Grantaire vows not to even think about it until he has the proper space to cry about it. Sleep comes eventually.

+

 

When Grantaire wakes up, it is because someone is shifting on top of him at the sound of a door creaking open. His eyes remain closed as the person next to him clears his throat. The warmth of a cover on top of him leaves him trying to slip back into sleep. No dice.

 

“Combeferre,” Enjolras says, voice deep and scratchy but supremely dignified, “Why are you in my room?”

Grantaire is in Enjolras' bed. Fuck. Last night happened. 

 

“Checking that you made it home safely, is all,” Combeferre says, in a light tone, “Grantaire never texted me that he got you here. Courfeyrac was so worried he almost didn’t get it up again for round number four.”

 

(Grossly exaggerated, Grantaire, who had a quick encounter of that sort with Courfeyrac years ago, thinks, but perhaps actually within the realm of possibility, given sufficient time and years of practice...Combeferre does sound appropriately worn out.)

 

“Ah, well, here I am, safely in bed.” Enjolras replies, voice regaining some steadiness.

“Okay, I’m just going to address the issue at hand then, you can have hangover coffee later, I think Grantaire should have this one. That is his mop of hair I see peeking out from the covers, right?”

 

“Certainly,” Enjolras says, “Wait, _what_?”

 

“ _Why_ are there ducks and scattered peas in our living room?” Combeferre’s tone of voice is unchanged, but Enjolras inhales sharply. The covers shift a little, they leave Grantaire bare to the room, shirtless that he is, and there is a sharper inhale still from Enjolras and an amused snort from the door.

 

“Not a dream, then…” Enjolras murmurs. “I thought it must have been a dream.”

 

“And now I see why Bahorel asked me to check for any signs of Grantaire while I was here. Is he naked?”

 

“This is _not_ what it looks like,” Enjolras insists, as though Combeferre could ever conceivably believe that he’d bed Grantaire. “We didn’t - we didn’t do anything.”

 

“Apparently you did something...the ducks, Enjolras?”

 

“Ah, yes, the ducks,” Enjolras sighs. 

 

“Rather more pressing than a man in your bed, though I know we don’t see eye to eye on that.”

 

“Freed compatriots from the farm by the forest, magnanimously pardoned by Apollo’s insistent hand last night,” Grantaire groans out, stretching. Pretending to be asleep at this point would just seem dubious, and the situation is already uncomfortable enough. Still, both men startle a little. It is unsettling to see Combeferre startle, but it is more unsettling to see Enjolras stare at him like that, clearly hungover but devastatingly beautiful with bedhead and drool sticking to his chin. Drool from sloppily kissing Grantaire good night. Right.

 

“I’d better get going,” Grantaire says when no one else moves to say anything.

 

“Have a coffee,” Combeferre presses a steaming cup into his hand once he has wrestled his jeans and t-shirt on. The man seems calm as he always does, only his eyes are cheerful in an unusual manner. He wears satisfaction well. Courfeyrac must have seriously pulled out all the stops for him last night. Grantaire downs the offered cup in seconds, ignoring the temperature in favor of escape. His tongue can regenerate.

 

(One day his tongue will be a new one that has never tasted Enjolras. He can get past this. It meant nothing.)

 

“Thank you, Grantaire.” He manages to hear Enjolras call after him just as the door falls closed.

+

“So what did you end up doing with the ducks?” Feuilly asks Combeferre when Grantaire enters the Corinthe a week later. Next to Combeferre, Enjolras looks quietly pleased with himself.

“Jehan has a garden at the new place, lots of roaming space. They’ll take them on. Until then they’re rooming with Enjolras and I am rejoicing in the fact that he will never quite get their smell out of his room unless we hire a professional cleaning crew,” Combeferre explains.

 

“He’s gotten so attached to them, it’s incredible. He’s given them names. I’ve caught him taking photos with them. I’ve _taken_ photos of them with him. It’s adorable,” Courfeyrac needles gleefully, but Enjolras just shrugs it off, that small smile nowhere close to disappearing. Grantaire hopes he can slip in undetected, like he often does. Joly and Bossuet are already waving at him jovially. Bahorel is dead-lifting Musichetta next to their table. It’s already shaping up to be a great evening.

 

He doesn’t make it far. In fact he does not make it further than two steps into the room before Enjolras' head snaps up, almost as though he's been keeping a stern eye on the door for any sign of movement.

 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras calls out, far too loudly for Grantaire to pretend to overhear him. (That would likely lead to embarrassment, because someone would point out that Enjolras called for him and then it would make everything worse.)

 

“Apollo,” Grantaire responds, nodding and waving, before trying to continue his path to the merry dead-lifting challenge he wants to lose some money to. But - oh no - Enjolras is pushing out of his chair. He’s coming towards him, that’s worse. Fuck.

 

“Do you have a second to talk?”

 

“I might even have five, but I can’t promise more than that.”

 

The reply comes without having to think about it. A reflex. Enjolras doesn’t smile though, Grantaire isn’t foolish enough to assume he’ll ever get a smile again. He’s still playing the drunk ones over and over in his head.

 

“You’ve been ignoring my calls,” Enjolras stumbles into the confrontation with no preamble. Grantaire is not entirely unprepared, but he takes a hit anyway. It hurts.

 

“Been busy.”

 

“You spent the entirety of your weekend playing video games and drinking with Éponine.”

 

Grantaire is already in the process of dismissing such baseless, unfounded accusations, when Enjolras rolls his eyes and interrupts: “Gavroche sent me snaps. I’d recognize your body anywhere.”

 

“You did spend a good amount of time staring at it.”

 

This has the effect of producing a heavy blush on Enjolras’ face. “I meant that your tattoos are very distinctive, but since you bring it up…”

 

Oh no. Trust Grantaire to talk himself into his early grave. “I told you you’d regret it. Look, we don’t have to do this...not right now, not ever…”

 

“I regret nothing about that night.”

 

“Nothing?”

 

“We saved five innocent animals and I… I had fun. You made that night the only time I enjoyed being drunk. It even made the hangover bearable. Until I realized you were avoiding me.”

 

“And I’m sure you don’t regret probing my tonsils with your tongue either,” Grantaire, unable to resist putting his foot in it, scoffs. Enjolras’ eyes widen.

 

“Did I...did I actually do that?”

 

Grantaire’s lip is a thin, controlled line when he nods. He should just shut up, forever. Everyone who has ever admonished him for speaking was right to do so.

 

“Oh. And...you didn’t like it?”

 

“Your breath smelled like deathly spirits and I’m fairly certain I chipped a tooth in the process,” Grantaire pushes a hand through his hair. Enjolras looks crestfallen, and Grantaire feels obligated to put some things right. “But most importantly, Apollo, you were shitfaced. I loved that you were kissing me, but you were drunk and clearly didn’t actually want to.”

 

“I just remember wanting to tell you how grateful I was without so many words that I’d be rambling.”

 

Grantaire looks at the floor. It makes the whole kiss seem even more terrible. A thank you kiss. Only one step up the ladder from a pity kiss.

 

“Alright, so my technique was clearly terrible. Was it hopeless though?” Enjolras asks. “Don’t tell me I’ve turned you off kissing me forever?”

 

Grantaire’s head snaps right back up. What. There is a small hint of a smile playing around Enjolras’ lips, and Grantaire feels his heart speed up. It’s terribly inconvenient how that smile leaves him unable to think. He should...beer…

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Enjolras wonders. “Because I could see myself getting better, given proper tutelage. Are you interested in teaching?”

 

“Never saw myself as a teacher, but I might make an exception for you,” Grantaire shuffles his feet, kicking a pebble. Enjolras is smiling, a true smile.

 

“Excellent. I also seem to require some instruction as to how dating goes.”

 

“Dating?”

 

“If you’d like that too. I would, but we don't have to. We could make those lessons a quid pro quo thing. One night you can take me on something you consider a date, and then I can have a turn the next night. I think that's very egalitarian.”

 

“And what do you consider a date? More animal liberation?”

 

Enjolras misses the joke entirely.

 

“I’m not ruling it out.”  Though, perhaps, not entirely. He is smiling, after all. “What do you say, Grantaire?”

 

What does Grantaire say? Nothing, in fact, for once, but he does kiss Enjolras to make his silence understood.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say Hi on  
> [Tumblr](https://www.annabrolena.tumblr.com/)


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